


out of my element

by rhymeswithpi



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: M/M, Sick Ignis Scientia, Sickfic, Tags Are Hard, i am bad at titles and it shows, iggy is a bit of a mess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-28
Updated: 2020-12-28
Packaged: 2021-03-11 04:09:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,780
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28389072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rhymeswithpi/pseuds/rhymeswithpi
Summary: At this point, he’s resigned to the fact that he’s not just getting sick, he is sick. All he can hope for at this point is a quick end to this meeting so he can get home, make some tea, and curl up as a ball of misery and mucus in bed. What started as a sore throat has moved on to being so congested his eyes hurt, which is making it increasingly more difficult to care about whatever this meeting is supposed to be about. Traffic? Geese? It’s definitely about something, and he’s sure he’d have an opinion if he could focus past the throbbing in his temples.
Relationships: Prompto Argentum/Ignis Scientia
Comments: 8
Kudos: 61





	out of my element

**Author's Note:**

> i've been staring at 100k of mostly unedited fic i wrote during nanowrimo this year and going "welp, something has to be actually decent enough to share with the internet, right?"  
> and anyway here you go  
> have more promnis  
> and maybe if i stare at the rest of it hard enough it'll magically finish writing itself and i'll post the rest of it  
> title is a vague reference to the mountain goats' "how to embrace a swamp creature"

At this point, he’s resigned to the fact that he’s not just _getting_ sick, he _is_ sick. All he can hope for at this point is a quick end to this meeting so he can get home, make some tea, and curl up as a ball of misery and mucus in bed. What started as a sore throat has moved on to being so congested his _eyes_ hurt, which is making it increasingly more difficult to care about whatever this meeting is supposed to be about. Traffic? Geese? It’s definitely about _something_ , and he’s sure he’d have an opinion if he could focus past the throbbing in his temples. Nothing anyone has said has managed to sink in, and his notes stopped in the middle of a sentence nearly an hour ago. Not that it matters, because the whole meeting has turned into two people arguing over something entirely unrelated.

“We’re clearly getting _nowhere_ ,” Clarus says, standing. “There’s no sense in wasting everyone’s time to listen to the two of you argue. We’ll reconvene next week, and _please_ do us all the favour of actually knowing what you’re talking about by then.”

The chambers empty, council members filing out, most of them grumbling about the abrupt end to the meeting. Ignis intends to follow, as soon as he can find the will to stand up again.

“Go _home_ , Ignis. If you feel half as horrid as you look, you need rest. We’ll see to the rest of your duties for the day.”

“Thank you, sir,” he says, proud that his voice only cracks a _little_ bit.

Clarus gives him a sympathetic look and walks him to the door, hand at the small of his back.

He’s been sitting in his car for _far_ too long and he knows it, leaning on the steering wheel. Any minute now, he’ll find the will to start it and drive home. At least he doesn’t have to chauffeur Noct around today, and if he can just make it through tomorrow, he’ll be able to enjoy a rare day off. Probably to sleep and try to kick whatever cold has decided to make his body its home, really, but at least he’ll get to suffer in the comfort of his own tiny flat.

He’s one of the last cars in the garage by the time he finally finds the energy to start the engine. It’s early enough in the day to miss the worst of the traffic, at least, and it doesn’t take nearly as long as he was dreading to get back to his tiny flat. Even though climbing the stairs _does_ wind him, which is really not helping the headache.

There is _way_ too much honey in this cup of tea and he only has himself to blame. It seemed like a good idea when he was making it, vaguely remembering someone babbling on about the benefits of fresh, local honey when you’re sick, but it’s _all_ he can taste in this cup. It’s basically hot honey water that might contain tea somewhere in it, maybe, if you turn your head and squint. It’s sickening. But it’s warm, and it’s soothing his throat at least a little bit. He just has to close his eyes and try not to _taste_ it.

He rummages through his medicine cabinet, trying to find _anything_ that will help ease this misery. All he comes back with is some aspirin and some slightly out of date decongestants. It has to be better than nothing, though, and he washes them all down with the last of his tea.

The decongestants barely take the edge off the pressure in his sinuses, with the added bonus of making his heart race even though he’s not doing anything more intense than laying in bed. He can’t get comfortable enough to sleep, caught in an endless cycle of trying to find a position that doesn’t make his head throb. Just as he almost gets comfortable, something changes and he’s left shifting and restless, desperate to find _any_ position that relieves the pressure in his head.

He wakes up with his mouth so dry his tongue _hurts_ . He sips at the water he left on his nightstand, but it burns its way down his throat and does little to convince his mouth to be less arid. His mouth tastes _foul_ , too, now that he has enough moisture in it to actually taste. Just to add extra insult, he’s still congested, his head aches, and he’s pretty sure he didn’t sleep more than two hours all night.

Getting out of bed to make tea wipes him out, leaves him leaning on the kitchen counter while he waits for the kettle to whistle. But he’s still not running a fever, according to his thermometer, so he should probably attempt to get _some_ work done today. He should be able to manage, really. He’s worked through worse than this. And most of what he needs to do today can be done from home. All he has to do is sit at his desk. And _read_. That thought makes his eyes hurt already, and he’s not even trying to do anything yet.

Noct’s school is having another in-service day, at least, so Ignis doesn’t need to head over to his flat for a few more hours. Something about having to retrain all the teachers on proper protocol in the event of… something. Ignis doesn’t remember what they’re dealing with today, or if he had a hand in making sure it happened. 

He finds his phone on the floor, halfway under the bed. Because that’s the logical place for it to be, obviously, instead of on the nightstand. There’s only a handful of missed messages, at least, most of them things he can safely ignore for the moment.

_“Dad said you weren’t looking great yesterday. Need me to deal with Noct today?”_

Well, yes. And no. He can’t really justify taking the day just because his head hurts, but he’s _tired_. And probably composed almost entirely of tea and mucus, at this point. Blowing his nose does _nothing_ to relieve the congestion in his head, only serves to make his ears feel the pressure.

He is _so tired_ of being congested, he would actively sell his soul to make this stop. Maybe he can just take the morning, try to get some more sleep, and head to the Citadel for the afternoon meetings. He texts back a quick _“yes”_ and hits send before he has a chance to second guess himself, sends another to Noct to say he’s under the weather and will see him later that afternoon before crawling back into bed.

Somehow, waking up again is _even worse_. Apparently his sinuses listened to his complaints, though, because he’s no longer congested. Instead, his nose just _will not stop running_ , and he’s already gone through most of the tissues he had on his nightstand trying to keep up with the constant nose blowing. Worse, his sinuses keep draining down the back of his throat periodically, and now he’s _coughing_ , too, which is tearing his throat to shreds all over again.

He manages to sit up in bed, at least, but that’s probably all he’s going to manage any time soon. He hasn’t _eaten_ today, which is something he should definitely deal with. Not that he’s even remotely hungry, but he can’t pretend he doesn’t know how much of a toll being sick is going to take on him. 

It’s barely fifteen steps to get to the other side of his apartment. Fifteen steps, and he can get more tea and pretend to find something he wants to eat. That’s all it will take, and he can’t even convince himself to move that far.

He should probably call someone and let them know he won’t be coming in for meetings today. At very least, he should check in with Gladio about missing their training session tonight, and make sure someone gets Noct food that isn’t utter garbage.

It takes standing up for Ignis to realize he has _no idea_ where his phone is, which is a bit of a problem. Considering that everything he can do from home for the rest of the day means he has to _call someone_ , that is.

There’s a knock at his door, and damn if _that_ doesn’t make his head hurt more. It takes a few minutes to him to make his way across the room, one hand on the wall in case he stumbles. He takes a breath to steel himself before opening the door, coughs it out as it burns his throat. This is officially the worst.

“I texted you to say I was coming over but you didn’t respond and then I got _worried_ because you always respond to me and what if you had passed out but Noct told me you were probably just sleeping which, y’know, fair, because sick people sleep a lot.”

Prompto finally looks _up_ instead of at his feet. Ignis would be entertained if he wasn’t so tired.

“Wow, Iggy, you look _awful_.”

Ignis just coughs roughly into his elbow. Maybe he can just close the door and go back to bed, pretend he doesn’t remember any of this happening.

“I just meant you look _really sick_ , because you look really tired and you don’t usually you’re usually just looking all _handsome_ and I did not mean to say that out loud, _I brought you soup_ I hope you like it!”

Prompto shoves a bag into his hands and runs off before he can think of a reply. Well, that settles the problem of making dinner, at least. Ignis closes the door and makes his way to his desk before pulling the thermos out of the bag.

The thermos is absolutely _covered_ in chocobos. _Glittery_ chocobos. 

The soup honestly isn’t bad. Maybe a bit saltier than it needs to be, or maybe salt is just the only damn thing he can taste right now. But it’s warm, and it’s food he didn’t have to cook. There’s also plenty left over, so he can have another bowl in the morning.

He leaves the empty bowl in the sink, puts the leftovers in the fridge. Dishes can wait until his sinuses _aren’t_ trying to kill him. Or maybe they will, and he’ll never have to wash dishes again. Hope costs nothing.

He wakes up again in the middle of the night, based on the amount of light coming through the window and the yelling he can hear through the wall. His phone is probably _somewhere_ , and he’s honestly not sure if he remembered to plug it in. He can bother with that some other time. It’s not like he hasn’t already missed his appointments, they’ve probably put the pieces together by now.

It takes a minute to find his glasses on his nightstand, mostly because he almost knocks over a glass of water that _definitely_ wasn’t there when he crawled back into bed. He doesn’t even remember taking his glasses off, now that he’s thinking about it. Granted, he’s sick and has probably done more than a few things he won’t remember, and he’ll probably do a lot more in the coming days.

There’s a folded bit of paper stuck in the arms of his glasses, and gods, now he has to _read_. Which means turning on a light. This is the actual worst. He blows his nose and sips at his water before fighting with the lamp.

_Did the dishes. There’s cold medicine in the bathroom for you. Sorry for saying you looked awful earlier!_

_-Prompto_

_P.S. Also I took out your trash and got you a new box of tissues._

Well. That explains next to nothing. Least of all how Prompto got _in_ to his flat in the first place, although he supposes he may have forgotten to lock the door after the soup incident. But having something to take that might _not_ make his heart feel like it’s going to explode out of his chest might be nice.

His pillow starts buzzing. Ah. _That’s_ where his phone decided to hide, then. That’s one mystery solved.

“Hello?”

_Gods_ he sounds wrecked. He’s not sure what he expected, considering how talking grates at his throat. But still, he was hoping it would sound _less_ brutal.

“Um. Hi, Iggy! It’s. It’s Prompto? I’m at the store because well, _I_ needed some stuff for home, and I figured you might need something and I could just. Guess. But then I thought maybe you’d like some cough drops or tea or something and I should ask what kind you like and you weren’t responding to texts and Noct was _completely_ unhelpful so. Do you need anything?”

“Prompto, it’s _two in the morning_.”

“Oh. Um. Sorry? I didn’t mean to wake you! I just -”

“It’s fine,” he rasps. “Maybe some juice? And lozenges, if you can.”

“I can do that! Is there any flavor you’d like? Just so I don’t get something you hate?”

“Apple. And not honey.”

“Got it. Thanks, Iggy! I’ll. I’ll bring it by soon, alright? Feel better!”

Well. That’s a thing that he’s going to have to deal with soon, then, instead of going _back to sleep_ like a reasonable sick person. But for now, he’s out of water, and his mouth tastes _awful_. Illness is no excuse for poor oral hygiene. Besides, he can check what this supposed cold medicine is while he’s brushing his teeth.

His mouth is full of toothpaste when he hears a key in the deadbolt. He spits and turns just as Prompto is closing the door behind himself.

“Prompto. How did you get _in_ here?”

“Oh! Well. Noct sort of gave me his spare key? I’ll give it back soon, I just. I was really worried, okay? Being alone when you’re sick is _awful_ and I was all worried that you had passed out when you weren’t answering your phone this afternoon, but Noct and Gladio were convinced you were just sleeping and I’m pretty sure he only gave me the key so I’d stop bugging him about coming over with me. Um. Here’s your juice.”

Prompto gestures to the bag on the countertop, which has at least four different brands of apple juice in it. There’s an entire _pile_ of different throat lozenges. Did Prompto buy the _entire pharmacy_ out of them? The entire Crownsguard wouldn’t go through this many in the height of flu season. Ignis pinches the bridge of his nose and sinks into his desk chair. He’s too tired for this, really.

Prompto’s talking about _something_ , and he’ll be damned if he has any idea what about. His attention span is utterly shot, and his patience for this is close behind. He tries to take a steadying breath, but it catches in his chest and he’s doubled over, coughing violently. Prompto keeps rubbing tiny circles on his back, waits for the fit to pass. His eyes are watering, his throat _hurts_. He just wants to _sleep_ , damnit, but the universe seems to be dedicating itself to ruining his life.

Prompto helps him get back to bed, which shouldn’t be _nearly_ as hard as it is. Then again, his entire body is actively betraying him, he’s dizzy, and that last coughing fit wiped him out. Maybe he’s allowed to lean a little heavily on Prompto. Not that he’s _ever_ going to admit he did.

Prompto tucks the blanket around his shoulders and vanishes back into the kitchen area, humming quietly to himself. Ignis just wants to get more sleep, which would be easier if everything would stop _hurting_ , or if he could just breathe without it burning his throat.

He must doze off at some point, because he startles awake to Prompto brushing the hair off his sweaty forehead.

“Um. Just. Just checking for a fever, sorry. Do you have a thermometer?”

“Bathroom,” he rasps.

Prompto disappears again, comes back a minute later and sticks the tip of the thermometer in his mouth. Ignis watches him as he fusses with the blankets and the things on the nightstand until the thermometer beeps. Prompto whisks it out of his mouth before he even has a _chance_ to reach for it, tsking at it.

“Pretty sure this thing is lying, Iggy. Unless you run _really_ cold. But you don’t have a fever? So. That’s something.”

Ignis hums something at that, closes his eyes against the light. Prompto settles on the bed next to him, completely uninvited. Apparently, this is happening, then. He hears the lamp click off and forces himself to relax into his pillow again.

It’s only a few minutes before Prompto is getting up, and he can hear him opening and closing the fridge. Hopefully putting the ridiculous amount of juice away and _not_ noticing just how empty the fridge otherwise is. Right. He was going to get groceries today. That’s what he was forgetting to do. Not that groceries are going to happen _now_ , because walking across the room is enough to wind him. Even if he _could_ get down the stairs, he’s not sure he would survive walking around a store with the horrible fluorescent lighting and _people_. Ugh.

“Iggy? Did you take anything recently?”

He shakes his head.

“Okay. Um. I’m going to get you some medicine. And then maybe some juice? Or just water? You don’t have to talk! Just nod, I guess? That won’t tell me what you want. Um. Hold up a hand. One finger for juice, two for water.”

He extends a shaky hand, holds up two fingers. If this was Gladio, he _definitely_ would’ve taken the chance to flip him off. But it’s not, and he doesn’t know Prompto well enough, hasn’t been _dating_ him long enough to know if he could do that without offending him and scaring him off. As annoyed as he may be at having someone with _full access_ to his home (he’ll yell at Noct for that when he’s capable of yelling again, he swears), it’s… nice. Prompto is right. Being alone while sick is miserable.

Prompto brings over the tiny capful of medicine, helps him sit up so he can take it. It tastes _awful_ , which at least means he can taste something. Pity it’s something that tastes like minty green death. A glass of water is pressed into his hands, and it does _nothing_ to get the taste out of his mouth. It’s better than nothing, though, and he sets the empty glass on his nightstand. He can hear Prompto in the bathroom, presumably rinsing out the cap.

There has been entirely too much sitting up tonight, he decides, and lays back down. Prompto sits next to him on the bed again a few minutes later, and he’s very proud of the way he doesn’t startle away (and likely fall off the bed) when he feels Prompto’s fingers in his hair. Prompto’s humming something under his breath again, something he recognizes but can’t quite place. Before he can doze off again, the hand leaves his hair, and the weight on the bed shifts and leaves.

“I um. Plugged your phone in for you. In the kitchen, so you don’t have to worry about it waking you up or anything. Only have to worry about it getting water on it or something in there. Not that it’s close to the sink! Noct said to tell you to get better. Nothing from Gladio, but it’s like, four in the morning, so that’s not surprising. Can I get you anything else?”

“ _Sleep_ ,” Ignis says.

“Oh. Right. It’s late. I should probably go, let you sleep. But I’ll come back later!”

“Lock the door?”

“Of course, Iggy. Feel better.”

He’s asleep again before the door even closes.

Waking up feels like being hit by a truck. The truck clearly realized it hit something, backed up, and ran him over again. It takes him several minutes to figure out why the sun is up, because his alarms should’ve woken him up _hours_ ago. And then, of course, he starts coughing again, because he can’t even have a few minutes of being able to breathe without that happening.

His throat feels like he’s been gargling with gravel and broken glass, chest so tight he can’t manage to take a full breath without coughing again. And it’s never just _one_ cough, it’s always five or twelve or some number that hasn’t been counted yet, and they leave him exhausted and shaking, leave his head pounding because right, oxygen is sort of essential to living, and he’s doing a fine job of depriving himself of that right now.

Getting out of bed and shuffling to the bathroom feels like he’s trying to walk through molasses, limbs heavy and uncoordinated. He’s painfully aware he’s running a fever, even if the thermometer _does_ lie. He’s always run cold, and he feels a little guilty for not telling Prompto that. As much as he’d love to deny it so he can return to work, this isn’t just a regular cold.

He warms up the leftover soup for… breakfast? He’s actually not sure what time it is. His phone pings from the counter, and it’s apparently early afternoon. The soup is lunch, then. At least he actually got some _sleep_ this time, even if it didn’t make him feel any better. He can’t even _taste_ the soup. He’ll find the energy to be concerned about that when he’s not trying to focus on his phone.

_“Prom says you’re pretty sick. Get better. Gladio can’t cook and I can’t believe it, but I’m tired of pizza.”_

_“Kid says you’re sick, guessing that’s why you missed training. Dad said to tell you you’re covered for a couple days. Let me know you’re not dead.”_

There’s a whole string of other unread texts, more unread emails than he wants to acknowledge can even _exist_ . He sits down at his desk to start skimming through between spoonfuls of soup. There might be something important that needs to be handled. Not that _he’ll_ be handling it, because moving the ten feet to his desk was enough to wind him. He might try to insist he’s fine, but he’s not an _idiot_ , he’s too sick to work right now. But he does still need to check and make sure there’s nothing he needs to forward to someone who can walk _without_ trying to cough out a lung.

A new message pings in from Prompto while he’s trying to focus enough to read past the headache.

_“Feeling any better? I’ll be there in a couple hours, just have to get through my shift.”_

There’s really no way to express an extended groan through texts. He sends back a simple _“no”_ instead, and hopes that will suffice.

_“Iggy, if you’re still feeling awful maybe you should see a doctor.”_

Absolutely not. He’s had worse, or at least he’s _pretty_ sure he’s had worse; it’s not as bad as that time he had pneumonia, at least. If it gets _that_ bad, he’ll agree to see a doctor, but he’s still holding out hope he’ll recover without having to go to a clinic. He texts back another _“no”_ and hopes that will be the end of it.

“Iggy?”

He’s fallen asleep at his desk, he realizes. He pushes himself upright, peels the piece of paper stuck to his face off. Ugh.

“Iggy, let’s get you back to bed, alright?”

Prompto’s helping him up before he has a chance to respond. His legs give up halfway there, and the sudden weight on Prompto _almost_ sends them both to the ground. It’s a good thing his flat is so small, really, because it’s only a few feet to the bed from there. He sinks to the mattress gracelessly, sucks in a quick breath at the drop that sets off another bout of coughing.

“Iggy. _Iggy_. You wouldn’t let Noct refuse a doctor if he was this sick, would you? So please. Just. Do it for me. Because I really can’t do this alone. I don’t know what I’m doing and I promise I’m _trying_ but you’re just getting worse and a doctor would be able to _help_. And then we can sit here and I’ll pet your stupid pretty hair and make you all the soup you want until you feel better. Please?”

Ignis nods. It’s all he _can_ do, really, too worn out to do much else, and his throat is on _fire_. Talking is out of the question. He’s beyond the point of being able to pretend this isn’t just getting worse.

Prompto runs to the door, stops himself, like he’s thinking for a minute. He turns back, eyes wide.  
“Iggy, I can’t get you down the _stairs_.”

“Call Gladio,” he rasps.

It sets off another coughing fit, and _Six_ does he want these fits to stop. It’s bad enough that he can’t swallow, the universe just had to add _this_ to the mix. Prompto dashes back, hovering uselessly, like he can’t decide what to do.

“Um. Yes. Gladio. Okay, I’m calling Gladio.”

He dozes against the headboard for a while. Breathing sucks a little less when he’s not laying down. No sense in trying to get up until help gets here, really. Not that he has the energy for that. He can hear bits of a one-sided phone conversation, Prompto thanking _someone_.

Helen’s there when he wakes up again, talking quietly with Prompto by the door. She _glowers_ at him as she walks over, and honestly, he probably deserves it.

She doesn’t even _blink_ when his temperature reads barely above normal. Of course she remembers he runs cold, and she doesn’t hesitate to tell Prompto, too. Prompto sighs, and Ignis can _feel_ the disappointment.

“Ew,” she says as she shines a light down his throat. “ _Ew_.”

“That’s… not what I expect from a doctor,” Prompto says.

“Come over here and _look_ , then,” she says. “It’s _gross_.”

Prompto shuffles over to the bed. Ignis squeezes his eyes shut. He doesn’t want to see the reaction.

“ _Oh_ ,” Prompto says. “That’s. Ew. What _is_ that?”

“Probably strep throat. I can do a swab, but I’d need to be in my office for that. And I’m betting bronchitis, based on all the coughing. Bit of a miracle _you_ haven’t caught it, too, so you might want to start watching out for symptoms. Easier to take care of if you _catch it early_ and don’t wait around for it to get this bad, like _some_ people we know.”

Helen is definitely glaring at him again. He doesn’t need to open his eyes to see that.

“Antibiotics should clear most of this up. You can pick them up from the pharmacy within the hour. Lots of fluids, lots of rest. I’ll see to it his usual duties are covered for the next week. If he gets any _worse_ , or coughs up any blood, call me immediately. Otherwise, I’ll see you in two days for a follow-up.”

Prompto’s nodding furiously. Ignis is just tired, leaning heavily against the headboard. He’s tired of people talking about him like he’s not in the room, but it’s _fair_ , at least.

“And Ignis? You should _know better_.”

Helen walks out of the flat before he has a chance to gather an indignant response. Not that he could manage to get it out of his wrecked throat. She’s _right_ , and that hurts more than anything. He slides down the headboard until he’s laying down again. At least his blankets won’t judge him for being terrible at existing.

“Well. She’s uh. A lot scarier than I imagined. I guess I see why you all tell stories about her? Did she _really_ beat Cor in a fight?”

Ignis doesn’t respond, pulls the blanket up over his head. Maybe he’ll suffocate and _die_ , save himself the embarrassment of having to face Helen when all of this is over. But then Prompto might be sad, and he’s done _more_ than enough to hurt Prompto lately. The blanket gets tugged down. He lets it happen, not that he has the strength to _stop_ it.

“Iggy? I’m going to run to the pharmacy. Is there anything you want?”

Ignis shakes his head. He just wants to _sleep_ , but honestly, sleeping isn’t helping. He just wakes up feeling worse. Maybe what he really wants right now is to just wallow in his own misery for a bit, which is a lot easier to do when Prompto isn’t hovering and making sure he’s comfortable.

“Um. Okay, then. I’ll be back as fast as I can, alright? Your phone is on the nightstand, just. Just text me if you need anything.”

Prompto’s out the door and locking it behind him in a flash, and okay, fine, maybe his mood isn’t exactly pleasant to be around. Maybe he _has_ been a little mean to Prompto, who is legitimately only trying to help him. He’s been something of a terrible friend, and an even _worse_ partner the last few days.

And damn, if crying doesn’t just make everything feel worse.

Ignis must have dozed off again, because the door closing startles him awake. His _eyes_ hurt, and he’s sure he looks like an utter disaster. Not that he can be bothered to care. Prompto sets a bag on the counter, hesitates before making his way over to the bed and holding out another bag.

“Um. I saw this and thought it might make you smile and you really seem like you could _use_ a smile, so. This is for you.”

Ignis reaches out for the bag, pulls out a _shockingly_ blue cactuar plushie. It’s wearing a ridiculous hat and has a moustache. It’s the most hideous thing he’s ever seen, and he _loves_ it, hugs it to his chest.

“Iggy, don’t… there’s no need to cry. Really. Um. Let me get you a glass of water, and we’ll get you started on your meds, alright? You’ll feel better in no time. I promise. And then we can lay here and watch a stupid movie. It’s going to be okay.”

He nods, still holding the plushie to his chest. Prompto turns away, leaves to rummage in the kitchen, and he takes the moment to wipe his eyes dry on the sleeve of his sweatshirt. He feels like he’s _mostly_ managed to get himself together by the time Prompto comes back and hands him a glass of juice, forces himself to swallow the pills despite the burning in his throat. The glass disappears from his hand as soon as it’s empty, and Prompto’s back and pulling him in to lay on his shoulder, laptop perched on his legs.

The movie doesn’t even catch his attention. Prompto’s fingers are in his hair, scratching gently at his scalp. The stupid cactuar ends up sandwiched between them. Maybe he’s starting to understand this whole _cuddling_ thing, because it’s the best he’s felt in days.

Ignis wakes up feeling _vaguely_ human again. Barely. His throat still hurts, he’s still congested, and deep breaths are still out of the question, but it’s _something_ . At least he doesn’t feel like someone tied weights to all of his limbs, and the headache seems to _finally_ be receding. He rolls over, hugs the cactuar to his chest again. He’s not sure where Prompto is, but he’s going to have to crawl out of bed before too much longer.

His legs are shaky, but he makes it to the bathroom without falling over. That’s enough of a victory for this week, really. He catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror while washing his hands, and _Six_ does he look rough. His hair is limp and oily, which is probably only contributing to the breakout on his forehead and nose. His eyes are _still_ bloodshot and puffy, only accented by the dark circles underneath. _Ugh_. He’d take a shower if he thought he wouldn’t fall asleep halfway through it. Better to just take the win and go back to bed.

The triumph of making it out of bed is short-lived. His foot catches something soft on his way back to bed, and he stumbles to the floor, barely managing to catch himself on the edge of the bed and _not_ land on Prompto. Prompto sits up, panic in his eyes as he realizes what happened.

“Shit, Iggy, I’m so sorry, are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” he says, pulling himself onto the bed. “Relatively, at least. Prompto… have you been sleeping on the _floor_?”

“Um. Yes? I didn’t want to go home because what if you needed me, that’s a long way to travel and the buses are honestly _scary_ that late at night, but you also don’t have a couch and sleeping at your desk was really uncomfortable and I almost fell out of the chair like, five times. It wasn’t that bad! I’ve definitely slept in worse places.”

“Prompto. Just… just share the bed with me.”

The words _hurt_ coming out of his throat, and there’s a long minute before Prompto crawls up onto the bed, sitting uncomfortably on the edge. Ignis shuffles as close to the wall as he can, pats the empty space next to him. The bed isn’t large. It’s not made to hold two adults. Hell, it’s barely big enough for _one_ adult. They’ve never really _tried_ this, stuck in this awkward part of their relationship that has been accelerated by his body utterly betraying him like this. He’s never initiated this before, never volunteered his space like this, and Prompto seems just as uneasy about laying down as he feels about offering it.

Prompto eventually shifts closer, lets himself lay down. It’s _awkward_ , trying to keep any sort of space between them on a single bed. Ignis wishes, for the first time, that he had something with a bit more room, even if it would mean sacrificing very limited floor space. Maybe it’d be worth moving into a bigger flat. He rolls over, faces the wall, tries his best to make sure Prompto has enough room to get comfortable behind him. The reality is that he’s still utterly exhausted and wants to go back to sleep.

He can feel the moment Prompto finally starts to relax, moments before he feels an arm slip around his waist. _Oh_. Oh, that’s… that’s nice. Smiling, he twines his fingers with Prompto’s, leans back into the embrace.

“Thank you,” he mutters. “For… for all of this.”

Prompto snuggles closer to his back, breath tickling his neck. He swears he feels Prompto press his lips to the back of his head as he’s drifting off.

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> pretty sure i caught the bulk of the formatting goofs but yolo  
> thanks for reading


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